


This City Is On Fire Tonight (this could really be a good life)

by ealianarrain



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Background Relationships, Crew as Family, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Fluff, M/M, Modern Thedas, Multi, Mutual Pining, Protective Siblings, Romance, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 01:46:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4460588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ealianarrain/pseuds/ealianarrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>THE MODERN THEDAS BRANSON/DORIAN AU NOBODY ASKED FOR BUT I'M WRITING ANYWAY<br/>__________________________________________________________________________________________<br/>Over a thousand years ago, the Second Inquisition sealed the Breach and went on to reform the Tevinter Imperium, destroying the remains of the Venatori cult and setting in motion events which would lead to the abolition of slavery – at least officially. Now in the Cyber Age, Thedas has undergone Industrial Revolution on a grand scale, technomancy is a flourishing field, and pilots have to map their flight routes cautiously to avoid dragon migrationary patterns. </p><p>Fleeing from the Old Imperium, where technomancy is considered a new-fangled art beneath the attentions of a Magister's son, Dorian Pavus hopes to start a new life at Skyhaven University, with vague ambitions of returning to his homeland years hence in a blaze of glory, a champion of modern progress. He wasn't expecting the motley crew of mismatched characters he seems to have fallen in with - and he certainly wasn't expecting Branson Rutherford, of the golden hair, ludicrously blue eyes and a personality of a golden retriever. </p><p>Felix is never going to stop laughing at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This City Is On Fire Tonight (this could really be a good life)

For the entire last week before he leaves Tevinter, his mother is convinced he’s managed to catch a stomach bug.

Dorian lets her believe it – even hams it up a little, until she starts making noises about how perhaps it would be better if he waited another week before he visited Felix, who was such a _delicate_ boy – at which point sheer panic turns him into a prize-winning actor overnight.

He spends as much time as he can in his room, packing, unpacking and repacking, coming up with excuses as to why he simply has to have this book with him, or that item of clothing, for an innocuous trip to Vol Dorma and his childhood friend’s home. He knows it’s necessary, to leave so much behind, after coming this far he can’t risk rousing their suspicions – and perhaps, once the deed is done and the dust settled, they’ll see reason enough for him to return.

He keeps the paperwork bespelled to look like research for Alexius, tucks it inside one of his many folders in the hope that his parents will be too bored by theoretical ramblings to go digging past the glamour, and prays fervently that nobody asks why he’s packed the heaviest jumpers he could find for a supposed late-summer visit to sunny Vol Dorma. He knows they’re likely to be nowhere near as warm as he’ll need, but going out and buying a parka was sure to arouse suspicion, and he’d mastered the art of layering by the time he hit double-digits.

 The night before he’s due to leave, he retires early, begging the excuse of an early flight, lets his mother cup his face between her hands and kiss his brow, endures his father’s grim silence, and tries to do the sensible thing and sleep.

Within the hour he’s checked his suitcase three more times, and can’t manage to talk himself out of pulling the sleek little laptop from its protective case, swaddled in another jumper and tucked into his satchel where he can feel the reassuring weight against his hip at all times.

There’s a message waiting for him, and it’s ridiculous how much it eases the tension twisting in his gut. _Fasta vass_ , he’s never even met this person, and he’s going to be living with them. They could be a serial killer for all he knows.

 

_Message sent: 23:34_

_Hey, not sure if you’ll pick this up before your flight, but just in case – good luck! You’ve got my mobile number, call me anytime if you need help en route. There’ll be someone waiting for you at the bus station, the driver has your name, he’ll bring you to the flat._

_From what you’ve told me, I’m guessing right now you’re probably overthinking everything and halfway on the verge to pulling out. Breathe, get some sleep, and I’ll see you soon. It will be worth it._

_\- Kit_

 

He takes their advice as best he can, packs the laptop away again and breathes meditatively, eyes closed – but it’s not until he pulls the duffle bag into the bed with him, the precious folder a solid shape within the material, that he can truly drift into an uncomfortable doze.

He wakes the next morning twenty minutes after his alarm was set, to the repeated vibrating of his phone, a punch of adrenaline leaving him nauseous the moment his gaze registers the time, followed by relief – twenty minutes, not great, not terrible, he’ll still make the flight. He gropes for his phone, pushes it to his ear, headache pounding in his temples.

‘Lo?’ he yawns.

‘ _You **were** still asleep.’ _ Felix says reprovingly, and his exasperated, fond voice is apparently the soothing balm his nerves had been waiting for, enough to propel him from the bed and reach for the clothes hanging on the wardrobe door.

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re insinuating.’ he says, and it’s easy to fall into the back-and-forth banter, familiar, comforting as an old jumper with worn-soft patches at the wrist.

 _‘You’re a terrible liar, Dorian Pavus_.’ Felix says reprovingly, and then there’s a long, heavy pause before he says, carefully, ‘ _Got everything you need?’_

‘I believe so.’ Dorian says, affecting breeziness. ‘And in plenty of time to make my flight. Are you pleasantly surprised?’

‘ _Astounded, more like_.’ Felix returns dryly. ‘ _I’ll meet you at the airport.’_

Dorian swallows hard around the lump in his throat.

‘There’s really no need, I know the way to the house.’

 _‘I’m in the area._ ’ Felix says, and he can picture him, most likely sprawled in his mother’s sunroom, surrounded by lush-greenery, still in pyjamas and barefoot, dark hair pushed every which way with sleep and the early hour, that earnest, steady expression. ‘ _I’ll meet you there. Get moving, you’re already half an hour behind schedule.’_

‘ _Vishante_   – alright, alright, I’ll see you there.’ Dorian says hurriedly and hangs up before he can become maudlin, pushing the phone into his bag and reached for the outfit he had changed his mind over three times already.

He leaves his room in the early dawn light of another glorious, late summer day, fighting back the urge to turn and bolt back beneath the covers, pull them over his head and let everything continue as it always had.

 _‘They may say many things of you, after this_.’ he tells himself sternly, closing his eyes against the rising sun as the driver loads his bags into the car. _‘But don’t allow them to say you were a coward.’_

The fine gravel crunches under the tires as the car hums into motion, sweeping down the long, tree-lined drive. Dorian twists to watch the wrought iron gates close softly behind them, the estate still and quiet in the early dawn hush, and pulls his dark glasses down to shield his expression. Giddy excitement wars with nerves and no small amount of sadness, and he pushes them all aside, breathing slow. There will be time for all of that, later, when he is safely half a world away, beyond the Waking Sea and out of his father’s grasp. It would be the height of irony to celebrate too swiftly and find a family retainer waiting at Vol Dorma to escort him home.

It isn’t until half an hour into the short flight that he relaxes enough to no longer have to think consciously about breathing, his satchel stowed beneath his seat, the precious folder in his lap. He drops the glamour just for a moment, to read the top sheet again, as if it might have changed since the last time.

_Dear Mr Pavus_

_I am delighted to be able to inform you that the board has reviewed your application and voted to award you full scholarship to the University of Skyhaven, commencing in September. In light of your particular circumstances, we are also able to offer you accommodation in one of our residences, at a reduced rate of rent – please speak to the accommodation office on the number below for details._

_We look forward to hearing from you._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Josephine Montilyet_

_Inquisition HQ_

 

 

The seatbelt light flickers above his head as they circle Vol Dorma’s domestic airport, and he casts the glamour again hastily, returning the page to a scribbled mass of notes and diagrams and laying it with exaggerated care in the folder. The satchel strap goes across his body, and he rests one hand on the body of the bag and keeps it there, all through security, until a familiar face appears in the waiting area, above a hideously gaudy sign.

 

‘D O R I A N  P A V US’ it proclaims in shades of peacock blues and greens, sprinkled all over with a rainbow of glitter and anatomically inaccurate hearts. Dorian winces.

 ‘Burn it.’ he says flatly, dropping his suitcase as Felix crushes him in a fierce hug. ‘What on earth possessed you to make such a thing? Did you think I would forget my name between Minrathous and here? It looks like it was made by a toddler.’

 ‘It was.’ Felix said dryly. ‘Valeria was inconsolable when father told her she wouldn’t get the chance to see you. It was the only way to appease her.’

 Little Valeria, Felix’s half-sister, with her mother’s golden eyes and copper skin, her father’s black hair in dancing curls to her waist, following him around like a particularly vocal lost duckling.

 ‘....Give me that.’ Dorian says, heart clenching, and folds the paper sign in two. It fits into the folder with the other precious things, and Felix says nothing, though his expression speaks volumes, grey eyes dancing.

 ‘Oh shush.’ Dorian grumbles. ‘Well, now what? Did you just need to see me with your own eyes?’

‘There’s a car waiting.’ Felix says peaceably, and helps him drag his suitcase out to where a sleek black limo is idling in the pick-up bay, tinted windows up. Dorian climbs inside without really registering his surroundings, until a polite cough catches his attention and he finds Alexius watching him from the back seat, work comfortably spread around him.

‘... _Felix_.’ Dorian groans.

‘He found out months ago.’ Felix sighs, climbing in behind him and closing the door. The limo pulls away, and Dorian resists the urge to scrabble for the door and eject himself unceremoniously onto the road.

‘And he still won’t tell me how.’ Felix adds, glaring at his father as he pushes Dorian down from his awkward, half-crouch, into the low, soft seat beside him.

‘Breathe, Dorian.’ Alexius says gently, shuffling his papers together. ‘I’m not here to send you home, I swear. If that was my intention, I would have come up with some reason to cancel this visit and keep you in Minrathous.’

 

Dorian stares at him, clutching the strap of his satchel like a lifeline.

 

‘I’m hurt you didn’t feel you could tell me.’ Alexius says, brow furrowed. ‘I think it’s a marvellous idea – and congratulations on your acceptance. I only wish you could do it with your parent’s blessing.’

 ‘So do I.’ Dorian rasps, startled by the sound of his own voice. ‘But it would appear not.’

 Alexius nods regretfully, and pulls an envelope from his briefcase, handing it over.

‘I know.’ he says gently. ‘And that’s why I’m glad I caught you first. I would not like to see you do this without any kind of support or safety net. I know you’re too proud to use this unless it becomes absolutely necessary, but it would help me sleep at night knowing you have it.’

Dorian flips the envelope open, shaking out a shiny new bankcard registered in his details, the accompanying paperwork for the account tucked inside. He swallows hard at the amount printed on the statement.

‘It will be topped up to that amount on a monthly basis.’ Alexius says, watching his face carefully, and forestalls his protests with a raised hand. ‘No, Dorian, this is my condition for my silence, alright? Bad enough I’m letting Halward’s precious son vanish to the south against his wishes, I can at least ensure you won’t be struggling to keep a roof over your head. Felix tells me you have somewhere to stay?’

Dorian swallows around the lump in his throat, but it takes a minute to get the words out.

‘Yes, a – a flatshare, the building belongs to the Inquisition. It’s part of the terms of the scholarship, the rent is greatly reduced and it’s mine as long as I’m enrolled at the university.’

‘And your flatmate?’ Alexius frowns. ‘I’m not sure I like the idea of you living with a complete stranger.’

‘I’ve spoken to them online a handful of times.’ Dorian shrugs, brushing away the twinge of anxiety. ‘They’re also an Inquisition scholar, they seem...kind. Keen to make me feel welcome. We’ll see how it goes, I suppose.’

He laughs shortly, folding the envelope into his satchel. ‘...I don’t have the capacity to worry about that as well, not at the moment.’

Felix squeezes his elbow gently, and Dorian pats his hand, brief and grateful, as the limo pulls into the international airport and there’s the flurry of getting him and his bags out, Felix standing patiently at his side, shading his eyes as he watches the planes take off and land across the plain. Alexius embraces him, firm and no-nonsense, his hand cupped tenderly around Dorian’s nape, and Dorian squeezes his eyes tightly shut behind his dark glasses, shame and gratitude warring in equal measure.

‘As long as myself or my family reside here,’ Alexius says, too quietly for Dorian to hear. ‘You will always have a home in Tevinter.’

He waits until Dorian nods silently, sniffing, and touches his cheek fondly.

‘I’ll wait with the car.’ he says, addressing them both. ‘I’m sure Felix would like a chance to compose himself without me hovering.’

‘Father!’ Felix groans, and grabs Dorian’s suitcase in one hand, his sleeve in the other. ‘C’mon Dorian, before he really gets going.’

Dorian stumbles after him, laughing through the burn of unshed tears, and he twists to look back at Alexius – smart suit, sombre hair, leaning comfortably against the limo as he watches them, sunlight glinting off the silver at his temples – before the automatic doors swish shut and the sight is lost to him.

‘He’s so embarrassing.’ Felix grumbles. ‘And he still won’t tell me how he found out.’

‘Ah well.’ Dorian says, unable to stop himself from smiling. ‘It seems we can’t quite get one over on him yet.’

‘I’ll be grey before we do.’ Felix predicts dolefully, and follows him through the security checks until they reach the final one and are forced to part. Dorian shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, until the younger man rolls his eyes and grabs him a fierce hug, all bony limbs and hands fisted tightly in the back of his jacket.

‘Don’t do anything dumb.’ he orders fiercely, voice muffled in Dorian’s collar. ‘And send me your flatmates details, I want to do a background check on him. And if you need money, use that account for Maker’s sake, even if it’s just for groceries. And - ’

‘I’ll miss you too.’ Dorian interrupts, and Felix sniffs wetly.

‘Miss you?’ he says. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. With you gone, I might have a shot at the title of ‘Valeria’s favourite brother’.’

Dorian laughs, and if it’s a little weepy, Felix doesn’t call him out on it, blinking furiously against his own tears.

‘Not in a million years.’ he jokes. ‘Her taste is far too refined.’

The boarding call echoes over the speakers, and Felix shoves him through the gate, stuffing something into his satchel as he stumbles through the automatic barrier.

‘Go!’ he says, and smiles. ‘Go show them all.’

Dorian swallows hard, nods once, and turns decisively on his heel, striding for the final round of security checks. It isn’t until he’s seated on the plane, waiting for take-off, that he remembers Felix’s hand pushing beneath the flap of his satchel, and flips it open, curious.

A small fabric peacock peeks up at him through button eyes, stuffed with soft filling, a fan of silk feathers erupting in blue and green from its tail, and Dorian laughs, clutching it too tightly. He could remember, Valeria picking them out from a window display on a rare outing with both her ‘brothers’, insistent that Felix should have a black cat to match her white mouse – and Dorian, the flamboyant, eye-catching peacock. He’d managed to convince her it would be terribly lonely for Ser Pavus to sit alone in Minrathous, and instead the peacock had held pride of place besides Felix’s cat on the mantelpiece of the family sitting room.

He sits and smooths the crumpled feathers, stroking the silken barbs out delicately, and is so engrossed in this task that he misses the moment the plane rumbles to life and taxies into the air, the wheels lifting from Tevinter soil. The sun is fully up now, bathing the spires and domes of Vol Dorma in golden light, and Dorian presses his face to the window and drinks it in, breathes slowly against the pain.

He doesn’t relax until the plane is soaring over the Waking Sea, silver and blue beneath him, the Ferelden coastline evolving from a distant dark smudge to rocky cliffs, still a long way off, and then it really hits him. He’s done it. He’s _left_.

 

It’s a long flight to Jader, and then a longer bus ride up into the Frostback mountain range, and he can feel the air growing colder with each leg of the journey, forcing him to dig out the sole jumper he’d put in his carry-on luggage and wrap himself in it as the sun sinks behind the western peaks – the scenery is glorious, rocky and wild, a harsher kind of beauty than anything he’s seen in the Imperium, and the low light sets the snowcaps on the higher peaks ablaze with pink and gold. But darkness draws in swiftly, leaving him huddled in the narrow bus seat, satchel clutched on his lap, staring at his reflection in the night-black window. He looks a wreck – wild-eyed and exhausted, washed out, and not just by the rain beginning to streak the windows. By the time the bus pulls into the station at Skyhaven, it’s all he can do to stumble down the steps and collect his suitcase, shivering fitfully. He’s exhausted and hungry, and giddy excitement has swiftly given way to miserable homesickness and regret.

 

‘Dorian Pavus!’ someone calls above the general hubbub, but it takes a long moment for him to realise they mean him – apparently a Ferelden accent is enough to render his name unrecognisable to him. Shaking himself, he peers out into the rain streaked night, blinded by the passing headlights of passing cars and coaches – and then there’s a hand on the strap of his satchel, and he’s called sparks to his fingertips without a second thought, panic bolting through him.

 

‘Woah, hey no! Sorry!’ exclaims the same voice, and he turns, hands still raised and shimmering with magic, to find a young man – his own age, perhaps a little younger – standing a cautious half-foot back, hands upraised in a pacifying motion.

‘Sorry!’ he says again. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you – are you Dorian? I’m here to pick you up.’

Dorian lets the sparks die, heart racing.

‘Do you greet all newcomers by grabbing them from behind?’ he snaps acerbically, nerves flayed raw. The man blinks at him, and lowers his hand carefully.

‘You were going the wrong way.’ he says, though his tone is contrite. ‘Look, I’m sorry, let me try again – I’m Branson, Branson Rutherford. I’m here to give you a ride to the apartment – that is, if you _are_ Dorian Pavus.’

‘In the flesh.’ Dorian says in a weak imitation of his usual confidence, if the look Branson gives him is anything to go by.

‘Awesome. Well, welcome to Skyhaven, my truck’s right over there – do you have any more bags?’

Dorian shakes his head,, clutching his suitcase in a white-knuckled grasp, but Branson eases it from his grip with careful fingers, hissing as he does so.

‘Maker’s breath, you’re frozen.’ he mutters. ‘C’mon, lets get you in the truck – the heater’s not exactly reliable but it’s still warmer than out here.’

 

Numb, Dorian lets the other man chivvy him towards a battered jeep that looks like it should have been removed from the roads some years ago, more rust than metal – but once he’s inside, the air lacks the bite of increasingly inclement night, rain lashing at the windows, and when Branson climbs into the driver’s seat, shaking water from his hair – blonde, curling at the tips, Dorian notes absently, long enough to be raked back into a low ponytail – he rummages in the back seat and produces a thick fleecy blanket of immeasurable softness, tossing it over him before he can blink. It smells of detergent, the clean-soap scent of fresh laundry, and he knows he must look ludicrous, but he can’t bring himself to reject it in the face of Branson’s earnest concern.

‘...Thank you.’ he says instead, quiet, and swallows his damnable pride along with his dignity. ‘Apologies – I shouldn’t have snapped at you.’

Branson waves him off as he coaxes the car to life with a muttered oath. ‘Don’t worry about it – I’m not exactly the sunniest of folk after a full day of aeroplanes. It’s about twenty minutes to the flat, if the traffic’s good, and Kit should be home by now – she would have come to pick you up herself, but she was called in at work.’

He’s not sure if that’s meant to be reassuring, the thought of having to make a good first impression on his new flatmate when he’s flayed raw and exhausted is...unpleasant, to say the least. But Branson doesn’t press him for a reaction, just turns on the radio to a low background hum of music and late-night chatter, and drives carefully, peering through the curtains of rain as Dorian rests his temple on the cool glass of the window and tries vaguely to take an interest in the passing sights. The whirr of the engine beneath the low sounds of the radio are wonderfully soothing, just enough to keep his mind utterly, utterly blank, and he dozes off without realising, jerking awake dazed and disorientated to the sound of Branson’s door closing behind him, leaving him alone in the cab as the man in question runs towards the large, rectangular building they have parked outside, his head down low. The building itself is shrouded in the darkness and driving rain, but a bright security light flickers on overhead as Branson vanishes through a door, and Dorian sits, bewildered, the blanket sliding down his shoulders.

He’s just made the decision to gather up his luggage and follow, when the passenger door jerks open and he looks up to find Branson has returned, shielded by a large umbrella which he overlaps carefully over the roof of the car.

‘C’mon.’ he says, smile disarmingly gentle. ‘You’re dead on your feet. Let’s get you inside; I’ll come back for your case.’

 

And so, Dorian steps through his new front door for the first time wrapped in a faded old fleece blanket, with a complete stranger all but shoring him up. He’s cognizant enough to register some of his surroundings – a square foyer with a pinboard and an oddly squashy sofa, a flight of stairs leading up to a shadowed landing, an open door spilling light over the top step, and pale bare feet with incongruously bright-painted toenails appearing in his line of vision. He tracks his eyes along a pair of legs clad in dark jeans, past a torso wearing an oversized t-shirt with some kind of sporting logo, and up to a face – narrow chin, high cheeks, a welcoming expression, and an awful lot of poorly-kept dark hair, cascading in a wild mane of layers to nearly her hips, the tips curling in all directions.

She comes down the stairs at an easy lope, stops on the second-to-last step and tilts her head at him.

‘Hi.’ she says, a Free Marches accent, low voice. ‘Welcome to the charity dorm.’

‘You’ve really got to stop calling it that.’ Branson says behind him, exasperated, warm and solid at his shoulder. ‘He’s exhausted, K.’

‘Mm.’ Kit murmurs, her gaze never leaving his face. ‘Any more luggage?’

‘One case.’ Branson says, and something flickers over her face – the expression of someone confirming suspicions, there and gone in the space of a blink.

‘Cool, can you grab it?’ she asks. ‘Come on Dorian, this way.’

Branson squeezes his arm encouragingly, and bangs back out into the rain, and Kit holds out her hand, palm upturned.

‘I won’t pry.’ she says, voice low. ‘But you’ve rocked up her on a scholarship like the rest of us, come all the way from Tevinter with one suitcase and the clothes on your back, and what you did tell me over the ‘net painted the edges of a pretty familiar picture. I had one duffle when I left home, and no idea where I was going. It was... _exhausting_. So come inside, get warm, get some sleep. You’ve made it, Dorian – the rest can wait.’

Dorian breathes slowly, and grasps her hand.

‘Dorian Pavus.’ he says. ‘It’s a pleasure to finally meet you face to face.’

She smiles at him, slow and wry.

‘Kit Trevelyan. Come on up.’

At the top of the stairs, the landing wraps around the staircase, two heavy doors facing each other, only one open, and Kit leads him through it into a large, open plan space that must take up the better part of half the first floor of the warehouse. It’s a split level, a flight of iron steps running up to a mezzanine which covers half the space, presumably housing the bedrooms through the doors he can just make out past the railing.

‘OK, lightning speedy tour.’ Kit says, grabbing a pen from a jar on one windowsill and twisting her hair up with a practice motion, skewering it at her nape without consideration for split ends. ‘We’ve got open plan living/dining/kitchen, all the furniture here came with the place but we can pick up more bits if we need them. I’ve already unpacked, but I’ve not accumulated much since my one-duffle days – we’ve plenty of storage left. Help yourself to anything you need from my cupboards until you get yourself on your feet, I do not want to be falling over your starving body on my way to work. Up here we have bedrooms and the bathroom – yours is the door on the left.’

She leads the way up the mezzanine, points out the bathroom, and leads him through a door to an empty room, depressingly bare-walled and featureless.

‘Do you have sheets and things?’ Kit asks, hovering by the door, and Dorian finally cracks, sinking to the naked mattress and burying his face in his hands. He’s still got the ridiculous blanket draped around his shoulders.

‘I knew there’d be something I’d forgotten.’ he says, half-hysterical, and Kit’s hand lands lightly on his shoulder, cautious until he doesn’t flinch from the touch, before she squeezes gently.

‘OK.’ she murmurs. ‘It’s alright. Wait here, OK?’

She vanishes, and he hears her speaking to Branson, low Ferelden rumble without distinguishable words, before the door closes with a soft thud and the click of a lock turning over. She reappears a moment later with his entire suitcase tucked casually under one arm, the other holding a pile of folded cotton and a rolled up duvet, and chivvies him off the mattress with a brusqueness that’s no less gentle.

‘Rule the first of moving into a new place: make the bed.’ she said. ‘It means when you crash – and you’ll crash hard, no matter how OK you might be feeling – it’s all ready for you.’

She flips the worn cotton out with practice motions, tucking the sheet over the corners of the mattress and performing some kind of arcane, ritual dance to shake the duvet down inside cover while Dorian stares.

‘I’m still not very good at that.’ she murmurs almost absently as she shakes it over the bed and tosses down a pair of pillows. ‘These are my spares – they’re clean, despite the ink stains, I was taking notes on the reading for the first week of classes and fell asleep. We can fix you up with your own sets later.’

She turns, hands on her hips, and gives him a slightly alarming once-over. He clutches the blanket, instinctive.

‘Alrighty...’ she says slowly, and points to his suitcase. ‘Have you got towels and shower stuff? Yeah? Why don’t you go shower then, I’ll make you something to eat, and you can just – go to bed. Unpack and deal with the rest in the morning.’

He nods mutely, and Kit leaves him to it with a vague threat about breaking down the door if he falls asleep in the tub. He almost catches her at the door to ask her to return the blanket to Branson, but something stops him, latching his voice firmly in his throat, and then she’s gone, the door closing softly behind her.

He sits for a long moment on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, before a spark of anger fires down his spine at how utterly pathetic he’s being, and he reaches for his phone.

‘ _Made it.’_ he texts Felix. ‘ _It’s freezing, pissing it down, and I forgot to order sheets to be delivered. Flatmate possibly thinks I’m incapable of walking in a straight line, let alone independent living.’_

 

He tosses the phone down and reaches for his suitcase, rummaging for his washbag, towel and sleepclothes while attempting to not crush the rest of his meticulously organised luggage, and by the time he’s accomplished that and shoved the suitcase into a corner where he won’t trip over it, his phone is buzzing frantically on the mattress.

 

Felix:

_Full name?_

Dorian:

_Kit Trevelyan – I’m guessing out of Ostwick. Is a background check really necessary?_

Felix:

_Yes – or did you forget about That Time We Do Not Think Of, with The Person We Do Not Mention?_

Dorian:

_OKAY, the point of that cumbersome title is to not mention it, ever. You are a terrible friend._

Felix _:_

_Go to bed, Dorian. I’ll let you know in the morning if your flatmate is going to harvest your hair for her doll collection._

 

Dorian:

_Worst. Friend. Ever._

The hot shower leaves him feeling mildly more human, and more than a little red-faced about the impression he must have made, standing dazed on the doorstep with a blanket draped over him like a lost child needing security, and he has to grit his teeth to force himself to go downstairs and find Kit instead of just burrowing under the duvet and consigning himself to blessed unconsciousness. His cramping stomach, empty save for a paltry aeroplane sandwich hours earlier, rebels at this thought however, and drives him down to the common level in search of promised sustenance. There’s music playing from a battered laptop set up on the kitchen counter – lots of acoustic guitar and a woman crooning, asking an unnamed person to please not say they love them. Kit is humming along idly as she pulls a pair of plates from an otherwise bare cupboard and slides them into the oven, hooking a pair of chipped, colourful mugs from a wooden stand by the sink.

‘Hey!’ she says cheerfully as he descends the stairs, towel draped around his neck. ‘Feel a bit better?’

‘Yes.’ Dorian admits. ‘I’m sorry – I’ve hardly made a good first impression. I promise I’m not usually this scattered.’

She waves him off, and hooks a bottle of wine from somewhere out of sight, sliding it down the kitchen bar to join the mugs. ‘Here, take that over to the sofa and get comfy. I ordered pizza, half veggie half meaty – wasn’t sure what you’d like. Pizza and cheap wine is a time honoured tradition for newcomers to the charity dorm, or at least, that’s what Bran and Cullen told me when I moved in.’

‘Bran and Cullen?’ Dorian asks, taking the bottle over to the low coffee table and twisting the top off, pouring a generous measure into the two mugs as Kit pulls the pizza from the oven – still in its box -  and slices it up, balancing it on one hand and the plates on the other as she follows him. The sofa is pushed back against the wall under the mezzanine level, creating a space that could be cosy were it not for the empty expanse of the rest of the flat, high arched windows running along the far wall. It all looks vaguely industrial.

‘Our neighbours.’ Kit says, setting the plates down and throwing herself down at the other end of the sofa, legs crossed tailor-style as she hands him a plate and tears a couple of slices from the large pizza in the box. ‘Andraste’s ass I’m starving, I’ve been at work all day – yeah, Bran’s the guy you met, the one who picked you up. He shares the flat on the other side of the building with his older brother, Cullen. This place was an old factory-slash-warehouse before the Inquisition snapped it up and converted it, their flat is the mirror image of ours. There’s storage and laundry facilities on the ground floor as well, I’ll give you a proper tour tomorrow. We’re all here on Inquisition scholarships – Cullen’s starting his second year, Bran’s a fresher like us. He’s on my course, actually.’

‘Law, wasn’t it?’ Dorian asked, casting his mind back to their few, clandestine conversations over the ‘net, constantly afraid of his parents catching him and the whole plan crumbling around his ears.

‘Yup! Corporate suit and tie, that’s me.’ she says, cheerfully enough as she bites into a wedge of pizza, cheese dripping over her thumb. Dorian’s stomach growls, and the first bite of the cheap, soggy bread, slathered in cheese and veggies, is the most satisfying thing he’s eaten in a long time.

 

He last for an hour, chatting idly, the pizza decimated between them and most of the bottle of wine too, before Kit catches his mug sliding from his drooping hand and declares it bedtime, her own eyes heavy with tiredness. She shoos him upstairs, promises to show him the sights in the morning, and when he falls into bed, the cheap cotton sheets and thin mattress are no obstacle to sleep dragging him under. It’s not until the morning that he realises the thick, warm sensation enveloping him is not a psychological state brought on by greasy food and cheap booze.

He’s spent the entire night cocooned in Branson Rutherford’s fleece blanket.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go, the Branson/Dorian au literally nobody asked for, even the three people who vaguely hinted they were intrigued by the pairing idea. This is going to be mostly fluff, but there are always odds it will become more serious later on because I like writing mysteries and my brain is already taking me vaguely down a Les Mis, modern student revolutionaries route. Rating may also go up, updating likely to be somewhat erratic. Enjoy!


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